View
by Axletia Rosonetis
Summary: Near's point of view is a little odd.


View

_It's been a while since I've posted (at least for me, anyway X3), so please forgive my rustiness. I got my inspiration from reading the works of Edgar Allan Poe ; btw, he's an excellent author. ~.~ _

_So enjoy, and remember that I do not own Death Note - just this fanfic. _

* * *

A couple of years after the Kira case, I, Nate Rivers, otherwise known as the elusive Near, was brought in for interrogation by the local Japanese police. I could still feel my white hair stand up, my eyes constantly widening, and my heart beating at a slow but steady pace. I could still hear the constant ticking of the chestnut colored clock that was across from where I was sitting, the humming of the light fixtures, and the scratchy voices that should belong to no man.

You're probably asking of how this could happen. Why, oh, why could this be ? How should an intelligent detective such as myself be held for something as serious as interrogating ?

Ah, my dear colleagues, sometimes justice is faulty, and innocent people get in the way of this faulty line.

But wait ! Am I innocent, or is deception gnawing through your cranium, slowly wasting away both hemispheres of the brain ? Alas, you must listen to this tale of nonsense to see through my point of view, because I, either way - guilty or innocent of this treacherous crime - unfortunately was caught in these crossroads. Oh, woe is me, for I can no longer have a sharp tinker toy, or a lanky slinky with rusty edges.

It was a bleak December two years ago, some might say. The trees were already starting to be covered by a blanket of snow. I remember vividly, and I remember fondly, that the view of buildings far away were obscured by the clear skies. It seemed to me that this day would be marked as a day shrouded by mystery.

I was outside wearing a fluffy cotton hat and a long, mahogany coat. My thick, wool scarf was draped over my mouth slightly, and I rubbed my gloved hands together as I watched snowflakes fall from the sky. The below-freezing temperatures always seemed to make me have that warm and fuzzy feeling inside of me. Or, maybe that was due to gas-induced chemicals. No one would know the exact answer - not even me. Why ?

Someone approached me. Or something. I was told as a child not to assume anything about anybody, so this someone could be something instead, and my assumptions would influence my thinking, had I not keep my mind under control.

This someone [or something] was dressed in long, black robes, and was thin as a twig. It also had slender, bony fingers, ghostly white as they could be. No face was shown, either, just a dark hood covering it. Could this something have been the Grim Reaper, claiming another life, possibly my own, for no apparent reason ?

Yet...no scythe. Maybe it was just an elderly man. Or.....

It passed me, and it started to amble back and forth the sidewalk, slowly, silently, never once attempting a word as it walked the same, steady pace throughout its stroll.

Then, all of a sudden, it disappeared in thin air.

You all would think this as illogical. After all, a person....or thing.... could not poof and do a Houdini. It may be possible in movies, but not in the real world. This would be thought as illogical. I thought it was illogical, and I saw the scene with my own eyes ! Illogical, simply illogical ! Was the view of mystery getting to me and finally wrecking my senses to the core ? Simply illogical ; I know I was not a mad man.

And then blood of scarlet splattered onto me. It drenched me from shoulders to toes, forcing me to wear a blood blanket, just like the trees endured the blankets of snow. Whose blood could have belonged to ? I know of no other person who was anywhere near me on this day, as this was an isolated area, and indeed there was no other person near me. What blood was this ?

Yet again, it was illogical.

While I pondered and inquired in my mind on how this could happen like a half-decent detective does, oh, now other people come into the area, these 'people' belonging to the law enforcement group, otherwise known as the police. These policemen - not women, but actual men - asked with suspicious tones about the soaking, bloody clothes that I was drenched in with blood. You should have seen the way I replied to the question. My tongue rolled with excellent fluency as I spoke as politely as I could, showing me charm and neutral disposition in the process. When they pressed on about how I had blood on my clothes, I merely replied that it was a simple stain.

_From what_, they asked.

I say, _I don't know._

_You're lying_, they accused.

_No, I am not. It's the truth_, I say.

Of course these men did not believe me. I do not blame them, either. After all, what sane person would believe a man that was drenched in blood ? I pitied them, as trust is very miniscule on this planet, yet at the same time I admired them for their inquiries that they asked.

Oh, but how morbid it was to be shackled and thrown into the police car ! My grand, mahogany coat - the coat that I had cherished for so long - was yanked off of me for influential evidence, and so I sat in the back seat of the car, bitterly cold, looking out the window pensively.

The sirens did not blare. I suppose the policemen didn't have to since I was already in the car. Nothing but snow seemed to be in my point of view. Plain, white snow. I remember quite clearly of the path that we went to get to our destination. Bumpy pavement, obviosuly worn down from several years of motor abuse. Stop signs and stoplights, the colors of red, yellow, and green, decorating the streets far and wide. Railroad tracks, the shade of a rusty brown, the rust from a series of treacherous travels made by the colossal trains.

And I sat there in the back seat observing all of these things, wondering where the blood that had relentlessly poured down upon me and caused me grief came from in this world. Maybe it was a bird that was shot carelessly by a hunter.

Improbable. Most birds loathe the cold. Meager food supply in the winter.

No other possibilty could be given and justified. There was no proof other than the blood, and that is all what the police needed to convict me.

But wait - I was only held for interrogation ! What futile questions would they ask me ?

I sat there, limp as a log, as the car pulled into the parking lot of the police station. The officers opened the door, and took me into their giant hands as they led me to the interrogation room. They demanded repeatedly of me to confess to a crime of which I did not commit. It seemed like an endless bombardment. Firecracker after firecracker, trinket toy after trinket toy, pressuring me to confess.

Confess ?

_**Never !**_

_For I am a young man, a detective of secrecy, who only yearns for his rights !_

Minutes passed. I grew weary of this interrogation, sitting idly in the wooden chair without a slinky to wrap my fingers around or a Lego to flick across the table. The questions continued - constantly, endlessly, neverending - it seemed, though forgive me for being somewhat redundant.

It soon grew intolerable. What did it matter to them if I did it or not ?! They didn't care for the truth at all - just to convict !

And then.....

And then it crept into the room, long black robes swaying in the light breeze provided by the furnace. Once again I was dumbstruck by his appearance. The hood was still draped over its head, hiding its face.

Soon it hid itself no longer. With a fling to the hood, it showed itself....or, I should say, himself. He looked not much older than myself, but he had long, white hair down to his ankles. His eyes were wide and deep brown, and his pale, pink lips were curled up in a curious smile. Well, everything seemed pale about him. His skin was a ghostly white, his hair limply hung on his head, and the chuckle that came out of him after a few seconds of gawking was light and playful, yet mysteriously sadistic.

A revelation hit me as dumb as a rock at the second he made that chuckle. The bony person that was facing me....was _me_.

Merely a reflection of myself.

I killed a person, yet I didn't kill.

I had no blood, yet there were blood stains forming on my bare ankles.

I was guilty -

- yet I was innocent.

My view was so confused.

Mind-boggling !

Bewildering !

I was living in my own paradox !

I was middle-aged, yet I was young.

I was there, yet I was here.

I was nothing, yet I was....me.

As the middle-aged me disappeared once again, I let out a deafening scream. I kept howling and howling, sanity evaporating, state of mind weakining, the voices.

* * *

It is now two years later. I still remember, but no one believes me, as their view is different from my own.

I sit here now, isolated from the general public. I know not if I did it, or how that blood came upon me. Was it even real, or an illusion ? This I will ponder until I pass on into the next world.

But either way, my view will forever be obscured.

End


End file.
